


The Sweet Humbug

by Gem_Gem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attempt at humour, Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Smut, Finger Sucking, French Kissing, Johnlock Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Mistletoe, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Neck Kissing, Platonic Kissing, Rough Kissing, Shameless Smut, Surprise Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 03:28:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5523743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Christmas "gift" number two. With Christmas as the theme.</p><p>Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Sweet Humbug

**Author's Note:**

> Christmas "gift" number two. With Christmas as the theme.
> 
> Enjoy!

**The Sweet Humbug**

**Sherlock doesn’t much like Christmas. In fact, Sherlock doesn’t much like anything. Most, if not all, holidays seem tedious and boring and irrelevant and horrendous and completely wrong according to him, but the thing is, he says all that, he acts like the Grinch and Mr Scrooges’ love child, but I’ve seen the way he is. I know him, probably better than anyone, and unless he knows I’m watching him and is putting on a thing, a performance, I honestly think that he actually likes Christmas, or at least parts of it. For example, this year, although he says he “loathes” Christmas decorations, he helped Mrs Hudson, our landlady, put up every since single bit of it, as well as aided the decorating of the tree in her flat and ours. He also helped with Christmas presents too. Sort of. He mentioned, in passing, what Mrs Hudson needed the most and then proceeded to explain what it was and where it could be bought. He didn’t buy it, of course, but, I mean, I wouldn’t have known anything about it if he hadn’t talked my ear off about it.**

**Sherlock puts up this front. I don’t exactly know why, but I’m positive it’s fake. I see the way he looks. I see and watch him and I |**

 

“Writing about me?” Sherlock murmured from behind him when he walked past with a mug of tea, taking a sip as he glanced over John’s shoulder with an arched eyebrow. While he moved in he knocked something above him and glanced up with a scowl, eyeing the swinging mistletoe with frustration. “Mrs Hudson! What have I told you about these stupid, infuriating, ghastly plants?”

“What’s that dear?” Mrs Hudson called back from downstairs.

“This mistletoe that you insist on slapping about the place! Get rid – I nearly poked my eye out with it,” Sherlock complained, looking at the dangling plant with a narrowed gaze. “Why is it hanging so low?”

“It’s not,” John butted in with amusement, grinning when Sherlock turned his glare down at him, “You’re just too bloody tall.”

Sherlock scoffed and then titled his head with a sudden furrow of his brows, leaning against John’s shoulder, “What is this you’re writing?”

“Nothing. None of your business—What makes you think I’m writing about you anyway?” John asked defensively, closing the lid of his laptop with a defiant tap. “I could be writing anything. An email, for instance – I’ve not finished emailing people and wishing them a Merry Christmas yet.”

“Because you’ve been glancing and eyeing me up the entire time you’ve been typing—Wait. Emailing people Merry Christmas? Weren’t the cards you bought and signed enough? Now you’ve got to email them the same mundane, clichéd, overly used, tediously sickening—”

“Oh!” Mrs Hudson tittered from the doorway, cutting off another one of Sherlock’s traditional rants. “Let me go get my camera!”

“Your camera, what for?” John frowned in bemusement, and watched Mrs Hudson flutter her fingers toward them and disappear back down the stairs. “…Okay.”

“She wants a photo of us kissing,” Sherlock sighed exaggeratedly as he straightened back up and hit into the mistletoe again. He glowered at it with a sharp vengeance and took a very menacing and deliberate sip of tea, seemingly scheming.

John rolled his eyes and stood up, reaching for the plant purposely, “Right,” he said.

Sherlock, however, snatched at his wrist and stopped him just shy of getting the stem, “What are you doing?” he asked in reprimand. “Leave it.”

“What? But…but you just said—”

“Mrs Hudson put it up,” Sherlock explained plainly but so vaguely that it didn’t actually explain anything at all, and pushed John’s hand down. “Leave it.”

Shaking his head, John laughed short and unbelieving and crossed his arms, jutting his jaw aside in annoyance, “I thought you said that you hated them?”

“Yes. I do,” Sherlock replied slowly, as if John was being dim, and when he swallowed another mouthful of tea, John realised that it wasn’t tea at all, but hot chocolate and cream. John smiled slowly at the realisation and wiped a smear of chocolate away from the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, cupping his jaw to keep his head still and glancing up into Sherlock shrewd and focusing gaze.

“So,” John said just as slowly, patting Sherlock’s cheek condescendingly and rocking forward on his feet, “if you hate them and Mrs Hudson is going to fetch her bloody camera for a photo we’d both rather not pose for, why don’t I just take it down? Take them all down. There’s one in the kitchen; did you know that? And above the fireplace.”

Sherlock exhaled the hot, sweet scent of chocolate and flitted his eyes to the offending plants in the areas John mentioned, “I detest mistletoe – Did you know that it’s a parasitic plant? It grows on oak and apple trees. Sucking the life out of them to bear it’s own white glutinous berries.”

“Yes. I bloody know. You said this last year,” John mumbled, rubbing his face tiredly and shifting his weight. “And if you go off on the origin of the word mistletoe again, I think I’ll have to strangle you with tinsel.” 

Sherlock glared with a pursed mouth just as Mrs Hudson came back with a wide smile, shaking and gesturing with the camera that John had bought her for her last birthday, “Go on then! Give each other a kiss!”

“Mrs Hudson, really,” Sherlock groused, but John eyed him with a smirk and yanked him down to kiss his cheek long enough for Mrs Hudson to fumble with the camera and take the shot. When John let Sherlock go he was blinking rapidly in surprise and John couldn’t stop bending back in to kiss him comically and overdramatically on his pouting mouth with a laugh.

“Careful with your hot chocolate, Sherlock love!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed after she’d taken another picture, motioning to the way the mug was tipping in Sherlock’s slackening hand. “Now, why don’t I set the camera up over there and we can have a nice group shot of all of us? – Oh I’d love that! I can have it printed and framed, wouldn’t that be lovely?”

John glanced over at her and smiled, “Is that a hint, Mrs H? A birthday gift or something? – Surely you’d want something better than something with my mug on it?” he joked, watching her fiddle with the camera with a lost expression near the mantel in amusement. He turned to share in the hilarity with Sherlock but found him staring at John with a strange look on his face, his eyes jumping over John’s face in quick and jerky motions, and John frowned in concern.

Sherlock swallowed visibly and loudly, eyelids twitching; and his mouth quirked and unfurled into an oddly wistful, open and vulnerable and confused beaming smile, “Ah! Got it,” Mrs Hudson said triumphantly, breaking Sherlock out of his weird stupor. “To think that I still don’t know what half these buttons and little signs mean! I’ll set it to ten seconds, I think – Yes. Ten will be enough—Come on, huddle up!”

“You’re going to take another one when Lestrade gets here, aren’t you?” Sherlock griped, snapped back to his usual grouchy self as he strolled over to curl an arm around her thin waist, motioning for John to join them irritably. “Hurry up, John.”

“Um. Right,” John mumbled and moved up to Mrs Hudson’s other side, slipping his arm around her slender shoulders warmly, happy when she brought both Sherlock and John closer with her hands on their lower backs. Over her head John locked eyes with Sherlock and blinked with an intake of breath at Sherlock’s stare, feeling something uncurling hotly in his gut until he looked away.

“Lovely,” Mrs Hudson squeaked when the photo was taken and she glided over to nab up the camera again. “Oh, John, is your girlfriend coming for dinner?”

“What? Oh, um, no. We…broke up. Quite a while back actually, I’m surprised you don’t remember – Considering the racket,” John muttered under his breath, following Sherlock with his eyes as Sherlock made his way into the kitchen, knocking back the rest of the hot chocolate before he placed the mug in the sink. “Anyway, no. No girlfriend.”

“Oh good,” Mrs Hudson grinned, wrinkling her nose and touching John’s forearm gently. “I never liked her anyway. She was a right little bitch.”

Sherlock snorted and covered his mouth at John’s scowl, “Mrs Hudson, she wasn’t a bitch – She was fine. Just…you know, we weren’t really compatible,” John told her with a tight smile.

Mrs Hudson stared at him for a few silent moments and then nodded, waving a dismissive hand, “She was a bitch, dear.” 

“And this, Mrs Hudson, is why you’re one of my most favourite people in the whole world,” Sherlock said and swooped down to kiss her cheek, hugging her to his side with a smug smile at John, cocking his head, “See. I wasn’t the only one to think so, John. I did tell you.”

“Hm, yeah – I hate you both,” John huffed with a twist of his mouth and a roll of his eyes, sitting back down at his laptop. Sherlock squeezed Mrs Hudson to his side again and then trailed after her down the stairs, mentioning the smell of homemade mince pies and Christmas cake, his curls catching on the mistletoe dangling in the landing as he past. 

***

John followed Sherlock into the kitchen after catching sight of him over Lestrade’s shoulder and smiled in question when Sherlock noticed him with a inclined head, “You all right?”

“Peachy,” Sherlock replied sarcastically and rooted through the cupboards to bring out a full bottle of whiskey and a small glass. “Need something stronger than the stuff they’re forcing down my throat out there – What even is that? Where did Lestrade buy it from, Tescos? It’s revolting. And if Mrs Hudson takes another stab at making me try eggnog just once more, I’ll literally scream.”

“Yeah, not really a fan of eggnog myself. Isn’t it an American thing?” John muttered and strolled over to nudge Sherlock’s side, lowering his voice. “Pour me a glass, would you? – Where and when did you get whiskey?”

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly and reached for another glass, “Does it matter?” he mumbled, peering at John from the corner of his eyes and then suddenly glancing upward pointedly at a small twig of mistletoe above their heads. 

“When did she even put these up? They weren’t part of the decorations last year, were they?” John sighed resignedly as he took the offered glass from Sherlock and turned to face him better. Sherlock curled his lip and knocked back half his glass, eyeing the plant with aversion, and then looked at John with what seemed like expectancy until John looked between the mistletoe and Sherlock and huffed in acknowledgement, gesturing him over. “Come here then.”

Sherlock didn’t move so John lifted his eyebrows and cupped his jaw in his free hand, tugging him down to brush a kiss against Sherlock’s cheek with a friendly grin, “Don’t have to keep doing this, you know – It’s not the law. There’s not really a rule on kissing under the mistletoe—Actually, didn’t you lecture me about that before? Something about it starting in the serving class of Victorian England or something?” 

As John moved to pull back Sherlock turned, his eyes gleaming and warm and glazed, and his mouth parting, and John frowned, dropped his hand to his side and then swayed forward to kiss his lips. It lasted only five seconds and they did nothing but rest their mouths together, but John exhaled shakily and stepped back with his heart in his throat, looking through to the living room and clearing his throat with a tight smile when Lestrade caught his eye.

Refilling his glass with more whiskey, Sherlock drank it all with one grimacing gulp, refilled it once more and walked from the kitchen to stand on the landing. The mistletoe hanging from the ceiling rocked roughly as he knocked it aside and John watched it swing, feeling a churning of heat and confusion and shadowed after Sherlock, whom at glancing back at him, turned to walk up the stairs to John’s bedroom. The atmosphere was layered and hot with some unknown unspoken tension, and John hesitated at the bottom of the steps for a moment before he ultimately decided to follow.

Sherlock wandered into the bedroom leisurely, ignored the light switch, and sat down on John’s bed in the dark, cradling his glass. He lifted his head when John sat next to him awkwardly and then leaned his elbows on his knees with a sigh, rolling his glass between his hands and staring at nothing.

“…What are we doing?” John asked lowly, feeling uncomfortable.

The silence stretched between them uneasily and just as it became too much, Sherlock’s unmoving slumped figure making the back of John’s neck prickle, John pushed to his feet the exact moment Sherlock lifted his head again to speak. They both stumbled over their words at the same time and then stopped to stare at each other, laughing self-consciously. Sherlock spilt whiskey over his fingers as he moved to get up and sucked it off with a frown, turning to John as he gestured with his shoulders.

“I…don’t know,” he rumbled between clumsy licks of the drink from his skin, and put his glass down on a nearby set of drawers. “I don’t know what we’re doing – or what I’m doing, even—Can we just, stay here a moment? Away from…everyone? Please?”

John stared as Sherlock’s fingers disappeared back into the plump and wet ring of his lips and then twitched, inhaled deeply, put his glass down and was suddenly surging up against Sherlock to kiss him, pushing him down onto the bed. John grinned at him, feeling bold in the darkness of his room, and cupped Sherlock’s nape to turn the next kiss moist and deep and passionate, licking the traces of whiskey from Sherlock’s teeth and tongue.

It turned rough and eager when Sherlock arched and tugged at John’s Christmas jumper and hair, and John dragged his teeth over Sherlock’s bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth with a harsh breath through his nose. Sherlock shuddered under him, moaning brokenly and screwing his eyes shut, looking overly excited with a scrabbling of his long, sticky fingers, and seeming so overcome with each press and lick and bite of John’s lips, tongue, and teeth that John pulled away quickly.

“This…this is it, right?” John whispered, as Sherlock got himself under control, his mouth kiss-bruised. “Yeah? You want to be kissed?”

Sherlock nodded faintly and cleared his throat, “I’ve not been kissed by someone that…that I—” 

John dipped down and reconnected their mouths, “Just…for today then,” he said in a heated exhale between them, shifting the next few kisses slow and deep, “I can’t be doing with those looks you’ve been giving me…”

“You don’t do this though,” Sherlock said once they separated again, peering through the gloom of the bedroom to search John’s face, “kiss men, I mean.”

“It’s nothing,” John mumbled with a blush, rubbing his nose up and over Sherlock’s cheek. “It’s you. You’re different so…so it’s fine – Anyway, neither do you…right?”

“Right,” Sherlock replied and arched his head back when John’s mouth found the skin behind the hinge of his jaw and then followed an invisible line down the slope of Sherlock’s neck to push a kiss to his pulse point. It sped up almost instantly at the touch and John huffed with a quiet noise in the back of his throat and touched his tongue to it, licking a wet, eager stripe over the fluttering patch of skin once, and then again, before John angled his head, opened his mouth wide and scraped his teeth in a fervent nibble and sharp pinch against the heartbeat. 

“God your fucking throat is so erotic…do you know how many times I’ve admired it?” John grunted involuntarily and trailed sucking kisses up to the bobbing Adam’s apple and back as he shifted his position over Sherlock’s body. With a shaky inhale, Sherlock turned in a silent plea for another kiss, and John sucked on his bottom lip again briefly, then ducked back down to his neck and drew a large mouthful of pale flesh into his mouth to bite and mark.

Sherlock tensed and gripped at his jumper, twisting it around in his eagerness, “Ah! John…” he groaned deeply and surprisingly loudly, crumpling up his own shirt as he sensuously squirmed and slipped toward the edge of the bed.

John pulled back with a wet swallow and covered Sherlock’s gaping mouth with some of his fingers, “Shush,” he whispered right before the door to the living room opened noisily.

“John? Sherlock?” Lestrade called, to which John scrambled to his feet and walked to the top of the stairs awkwardly, adjusting his jumper. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” John replied with a wide but twitching smile. “You know how Sherlock can get – We’ll be right down.”

“He in a mood or something?—Why is he in your room?” Lestrade asked with a deep frown, eyeing John up and then shrugging and waving a hand with a shake of his head. “Tell him Mrs Hudson will be cutting up more Christmas cake and she’s been asking for more songs. – Also, I could do with you being back in there. She’s sweet and everything, but…you know…”

John nodded and raked a nervous hand through his hair, “Right. Okay – I’ll, um, I’ll tell him.”

Lestrade nodded, looked John up and down again, and then returned to the living room with a smile. John waited a few beats and then self-consciously walked back into the bedroom, opening his mouth to apologise and perhaps offer to talk through what just happened, before he saw Sherlock sitting up with his hair mussed, his shirt creased and a very prominent bulge in his trousers. Sherlock glanced down at it and looked away, touching the mark on his neck that John suddenly couldn’t stop gaping at. It was big and red and glistening wet, and John rushed forward to swat Sherlock’s hand away and try and hide it with his collar.

“Shit. Shit, shit, buggering shit,” John chanted as he fumbled, avoiding eye contact with Sherlock. “Fuck…shit…okay, um, maybe they won’t notice it?”

“How big is it?” Sherlock asked, voice incredibly dark and rough and husky.

“Um, pretty…pretty big – The size of my mouth, basically,” John told him with a cringing laugh at the sudden innuendo. “Sorry…I…um...they might not notice? See but not observe, right?”

Sherlock got to his feet slowly and began rummaging through John’s drawers, “Mm. Possibly, but they’re bound to notice that I’ve got a stiffy, especially with these trousers,” he said, his mouth quirking when John snorted in laughter. “So I need to get rid of it.”

“How?” John frowned, watching him and then nudging his elbow. “And why does that mean going through my stuff?”

“I need a condom,” Sherlock explained and pulled a packet free, tearing into it with nimble fingers, some of them still sticky with whiskey, “and I’m going to force myself to ejaculate quickly without wasting time on masturbation.”

John blinked widely and then scoffed, crossing his arms, “Yeah, right,” he said, watching Sherlock as he abruptly began unbuckling his belt and trousers. “Wait…wait, you can’t do that—You can do that?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said quietly and John looked away as he reached down to pull himself free. “I have immense control over my body, John.”

“Yeah, so much control that you got an erection from a little bit of neck sucking,” John muttered mockingly, flushing as he said it but pressing his lips together confidently. He heard the snap of Sherlock waistband and glanced back over to see Sherlock looking at him with pursed lips. “Go on then. If you’re so clever and in control. Do it – and hurry up.”

Sherlock exhaled shakily and after a moment he retained eye contact and trembled, contracting the muscles of his stomach and pelvis with a faint sway forward. John swallowed and watched, noticing the flush creeping up Sherlock’s neck and face and the heaving of Sherlock’s chest the more seconds that passed. Soon Sherlock’s eyes fluttered faintly and he exhaled out his mouth in one long rush as the front of his exposed underwear shifted when his hidden penis bobbed thickly and twitched. A garbled bitten off grunt escaped through Sherlock’s gritted teeth as he shivered and John lifted his eyebrows, opening his mouth to speak until Sherlock lifted a hand to stop him and swayed forward again with a full body tremor and a scowl.

“Did you…?” John muttered unable to keep silent and gesturing to Sherlock’s groin gracelessly.

“Ejaculate? No,” Sherlock growled and looked so flustered and embarrassed that John found himself walking over instinctively.

“Performance anxiety. We’ve all been there,” John said and suddenly shoved Sherlock back into a wall, mouth automatically under his jaw for reasons John couldn’t think of. “It’s always the way – Can never seem to do something when someone’s watching. Definitely been there myself…”

“No that’s not—” John cut Sherlock off with a kiss and moved Sherlock’s right hand to his own crotch, pushing Sherlock’s palm into the bulge there. “John…”

“Just jerk off,” John told him, powerless to stop sucking on Sherlock’s plump bottom lip once more, his own cock heavy and interested. “Or…I can do it? – Doctor and all. Bet I could make you…”

Sherlock rubbed at himself a few times and then looked away and down, stretching his neck in front of John’s eyes, “I shouldn’t have worn these trousers…” he grumbled and clenched his mouth as he nodded. “Fine. Yes.”

John grinned self-assuredly, entwined his hand with Sherlock’s, wriggled them both inside Sherlock’s underwear and between his legs, using Sherlock’s own fingers to press up at his hot perineum, directing them and using them like an extension of his own fingers. Sherlock blinked and his breath hitched, but he allowed the movements and shifted his stance, slowly moving them both to their knees on the floor when his legs wobbled threateningly.

“This is so…naughty,” John heard himself pant against Sherlock’s cheek and then his mouth, gripping the hair at the back of his head with his right hand as his left became the puppeteer of Sherlock’s trembling fingers, “with everyone just down stairs…”

Sherlock rocked his hips with a hiss and tipped his head back, and John licked a line up his arched throat, biting his chin as he worked his entire arm into the actions between Sherlock’s legs. After several moments of heavy breathing, Sherlock gasped and then moaned louder and louder with each passing second, and John covered his mouth quickly with his right hand, chuckling dizzyingly against Sherlock’s vibrating Adam’s apple. 

“This is not…what I thought I’d be doing on Christmas, Sherlock,” John purred, working his left arm and hand a little more. “This is…really…insane…and so dangerous…and ridiculously hot—” 

“John!” Mrs Hudson suddenly called up, and John froze a moment before he continued his ministrations, muffling Sherlock vocal reaction and staring where their combined hands were, catching sight of Sherlock’s flushed and rigid penis through the condom. “John! Is Sherlock all right? – Why is he always in such a mood at this time of year? Didn’t he like his presents or something? What did you get him? Does he want anything with his cake? Cream, perhaps?”

“He’s always in some sort of mood full stop, Mrs H,” John called back, trying to keep his voice natural and calm. “Go back and dish out that cake – Sherlock’ll be coming soon.”

Sherlock groaned deeply under John’s hand and after pushing Sherlock’s fingers aside to rub against Sherlock’s perineum himself, John watched as he shuddered and rutted wildly with short jerks in orgasm, his moans and loud whimpers stifled by John’s palm. John pulled his hand out and adjusted his own erection; uncontrollably biting another mark into the arousal flushed skin of Sherlock’s strained neck and then grabbed him with both hands as he listed sideways.

“Good?” John mumbled and kissed Sherlock’s plump mouth when he nodded. “Good. Now, compose yourself and go eat some cake.”

“What about you?” Sherlock whispered between heavy breaths, gesticulating to John as he sluggishly took off the condom and did up his trousers again. “Don’t you need to—?”

“I’ll nip to the loo,” John told him and with another sucking, impassioned kiss, he got to his feet, made sure his jumper was in place and the folds of his jeans hid his erection, and strolled confidently away.

***

Trying to keep the mischievous grin from his face for the hundredth time that evening, John coughed and crossed his legs, rubbing his mouth with one hand. He checked the time and then glanced at Sherlock to find him with the same odd expression on his face that he had worn when John had first kissed him. John smiled slowly at him and looked away, impatiently going about the rest of the night on autopilot before he bid everyone good night, kissed Mrs Hudson on the cheek, and walked into Sherlock’s bedroom in his vest and underwear.

“What?” Sherlock asked curtly, glaring at John as he closed the distance between them. Sherlock sat up from his reclined position tensely and arched one single, elegant eyebrow. “Lestrade noticed, you know.”

“The bruise? – Let me see it,” John mumbled, kneeling on the bed and peeling the collar of Sherlock’s pyjama top aside gently. The mark shot a spark of possessiveness and eagerness through John that made the smile that spread on his face almost predatory. “It’s not too bad…and the other smaller one isn’t really noticeable either—Plus, I’m pretty sure he didn’t suspect or notice anything, Sherlock, because otherwise he would have given me some sort of sign. I was the only one alone with you for an extended portion of time. He’s a good detective, he would have figured it out – Not to mention they look fresh. But he didn’t see them, because he was too busy stuffing his face with mince pies and cake and gulping mulled wine.”

Sherlock blinked at him, “Smaller one?” he echoed, touching his throat and then scrambling around for something to look at his reflection in. “How many times did you—?”

John gathered him up quickly before he could rush into the bathroom, and kissed him, feeling the hot uncurling thing from before bloom bigger and hotter, simmering with buzzing fervour throughout his chest, “That was a good night kiss,” he whispered in reply to Sherlock’s dazed but questioning look. It made him seem suddenly younger and more innocent than John had ever seen him, and John cradled his face and nosed his cheek with surge of tenderness. “This…could be a thing…if you wanted?”

“A…thing?” Sherlock repeated, blinking rapidly and kneeling up on the bed with a frown. “Just kissing? Or…everything?—Well, not that it isn’t pleasing to think about that all continuing to happen in the near future, but I really don’t think that’ll be necessary. Today was a…lapse. On my part. I took advantage of your giving nature as well I expect, so, I suppose I apologise for that.”

“Mm-hm – So that’s a no?” John asked and kissed him again, then again, deepening it with a sly curl of his tongue and a scrape of teeth, drunk on the taste and scent of him as he pushed closer. “You sure?”

Sherlock melted against his mouth and moaned lowly, touching John’s arms gently, “But you don’t—”

“We already established that you’re different and it’s…fine and I…really…quite…love it,” John told him, and after yet another lingering kiss, he smiled and shuffled back to tug the covers aside. “So, with that being said, get in.”

“John, I don’t think that…” Sherlock began after swallowing several times and fumbling across the mattress, face flushed and hands fluttering. “That is…I…I’m flattered but I…”

“I don’t want sex,” John sighed in annoyance and turned the light off with a meaningful lift of his eyebrows, squinting to see him better. “I just want to share the bed with you – Not ruling out the first thing completely mind you…I mean, I’ve never actually, really, thought about it until you just brought it up, but now, thinking about it right at this moment, it’s not…you know, not something that I find that unappealing…”

Sherlock’s head perked up, “What did you say?”

“N-nothing,” John muttered and pulled Sherlock under the covers and against his body, threading one hand through his curls once, enjoy the way they clung and coiled around his fingers. “…Have you always wanted to kiss me?”

Sherlock sighed and relaxed gradually into John’s chest, picking at the hem of his vest for a minute of stillness, “…I rather think I have – I just never really knew that I did before now. It’s not really something that comes up in a platonic flat share and friendship, is it?”

“Suppose not,” John mumbled with a laugh, gazing up at the ceiling of Sherlock’s bedroom and thinking about everything all at once in the extraordinarily comfortable silence that followed. “…I think I have. In the back of my mind, like. You do have a nice…mouth. Shape is really pretty fantastic and…when it’s not sprouting an amazing, if slightly insulting, slew of words, I can see why I’ve been quite interested.”

“And apparently you’ve had a thing for my neck for quite some time too,” Sherlock murmured sleepily, winding his arms around John as he stretched and glanced through his fringe at him with a grin. “Although, I did know about that – Sort of – I thought you either wanted to touch and caress it, or wrap your hands around it and squeeze.”

John peeked down at him with a snort, “Yeah?” he whispered. “Well, I can definitely, honestly say it’s been a bit of both. Good deduction.”

Sherlock huffed with a smirk, nodded and then very slowly turned to timidly kiss the part of John’s chest he was leaning the most again, “…You always stared at me as well. A lot. And mostly at my neck – So I even entertained the idea that you somehow thought yourself part vampire.”

“I might be,” John shrugged and after another bout of pleasing silence, he shifted and rolled onto his side to push back into Sherlock’s front, wrapping Sherlock’s arms around himself securely. “Still need sleep though…pretty shit vampire.”

“Vampires sleep, don’t they?” Sherlock breathed, curling around John with a happy sigh and a puff of warm breath against the back of John’s head and neck. It sent flutters in his stomach and John stifled the sudden hitch of breath that accompanied them. “Or hibernate? Spend the daylight hours closed off in a dark room…”

John smirked and closed his eyes, hearing his heart beating loudly as he inhaled from Sherlock’s pillow, “Ah. Right – Yeah, that’s more like you than me, that. Don’t come out of this room for days at a time. I only know you’re still alive because food occasionally goes missing…”

Sherlock’s quiet, slow laughter rumbled through him and John patted his arm and hand, stroking the skin of Sherlock’s knuckles, fingers and then wrist and palm until Sherlock was breathing deep and even against his back, heavy with sleep. John tugged the covers higher, felt the smallest twinges of panic and worry, and gripped Sherlock’s arms in a firm but gentle clasp, drifting slowly into slumber himself with Sherlock’s slack and open mouth pushed into the top of his spine, and Sherlock’s arms around his torso.  


**Author's Note:**

> Feedback fuels me!


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